


I am a simple man

by cerebel



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Dark Knight Rises (2012)
Genre: Blindfolds, Bloodplay, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-13
Updated: 2012-08-13
Packaged: 2017-11-12 01:55:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/485370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cerebel/pseuds/cerebel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce has not yet reconciled his two halves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I am a simple man

He is still two men. 

In ordinary life, there’s no difference. He can drop the facade of Bruce Wayne, let the brusque but necessary roughness of Batman slip away. But there are times...

In bed. Where they find themselves a lot, unsurprisingly, the thrill of freedom with new infatuation with binding connections of adversity. Could be love, if Bruce could sort out the tangle within. 

He can be one of two people, in bed. As Bruce, she is the stronger, the wilder, the more passionate, and he is the selfish and the hedonistic. She rides him, her body gripped tight around his length, and he is at her utter mercy. (Can’t say she doesn’t enjoy it this way; she’s always liked bending powerful men to her whims. But Bruce isn’t just a powerful man, and there’s more to why she stays.) 

As the Bat, he is strong and relentless and unforgiving. They wrestle; he fucks her with a machinelike intensity that has her digging nails into his shoulders and leaving bruises where she grips with her thighs. It’s the kind of sex few people in the world would be able to take. They are different. Their needs are different.

But he cannot be both. And he can’t let them go. He can’t be the uncompromising Batman; he can’t fully discard the damaged rich boy. 

Which is why one day, about an hour since they’ve fucked last, Selina sits up and says, “Okay, fine, turn over.” 

He’s halfway over when he thinks to ask about the exasperated tone in her voice. Feels unfamiliar to trust a woman this much, but he does. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks, hand flat on the bed, balanced.

“I would ask you that,” she says, “if I thought I’d get a straight answer. Instead, I’ll just torture it out of you.” She pats his ass and settles him face-down, easing on top of him, her palm flat on his back. “Where’s your tie?” And now she’s leaning down, rummaging through the clothes within reach on the floor. 

He turns his head to the left, resting on his cheek, watching her out of the corner of his eye.

“Found it.” 

The next thing he knows, it’s closing over his eyes, and he goes stiff. “Selina.” His voice is a warning. They’ve both set hard limits. Places they won’t go, no matter what. He doesn’t like being blinded. 

“I know you’re in there,” she says, tying the knot. “Not Bruce Wayne, not Batman -- I know you’re in there.”

This doesn’t do anything to unknot his muscles.

She flattens against him. He can visualize every inch of her -- hips, belly button, scars, breasts. He knows her naked better than he knows her clothed. “Trust me,” she whispers. 

“I do.” 

Not hollow words. He does. He chose to, and she resented him for it, and then she proved him right. Maybe that’s why she’s still here -- just trying to prove him right. 

“We can be happy.”

Unwavering ferocity, in her words. She has pursued happiness like no one Bruce Wayne has ever seen. Her selfishness is admitted; she wears it on her sleeve; she does not deny it. He cloaked his in selflessness. If only he could be so bold...

“Selina.” 

“I know.” She pulls back, drawing her palm down his spine. He hears her slide free the throwing knife he hid behind the mattress -- he didn’t even know she saw him slip it there -- and she settles, astride his waist. “Breathe.” His only warning before the knife pricks into his skin. 

It isn’t the pain. Bruce can endure pain, as they’ve both found out, and so can Selina. Their kink does venture into those territories, simply because both of them are confident in their own endurance. And this is barely painful. But it’s _slow_ , enough so that Bruce imagines he can feel each individual skin cell surrender to the blade. Her other hand rests flat below his left shoulderblade, and he breathes in long, steady in- and exhales, the breath of a long distance runner. 

He doesn’t like blood-play, he doesn’t like being blinded, and yet he’s hard against the sheets. He shifts, and she makes a disapproving sound, and he goes lax beneath her. 

It’s as far from torture as it could be. Three parallel scratches, that’s what she makes, like cat scratches. It’s not punishment. It’s love. 

He turns his head towards the pillow and huffs out his breath. 

Her thumb runs up the cuts.

“How does it feel?” she asks.

“You know.” Or at least he suspects she does.

“Tell me _anyway_.” As her fingers walk up his spine, playfully. 

“Feels good.” Would Bruce Wayne spout off poetry, right now? Maybe. Batman wouldn’t say a word. This, this is a shaky middle ground. 

Her lips touch the back of his neck. “Good boy.” 

He twitches, as warm wetness -- her tongue -- draws up the marks. Imagines the taste of copper in her mouth, and he shudders, shakes with it. 

Her fingers hook under his shoulder, and then he finds himself turned over, onto his back. “Don’t move your arms,” she says, and he feels the vague impression of her knees on either side of his waist. The only place that they touch is her lips on his, and yes, there, that’s his own blood. 

Her hand wraps around his length, and he lets out a guttural noise he’s never heard from himself before. 

Feels her settle on his thighs, and her touch doesn’t wander, like it usually does. She just focuses. Slow strokes, from base to tip, sometimes pausing to spread slick over her hand. This focus, this single-minded narrowing of his mind, and the three strikes -- a mark that a cat would leave, in play, or as a mark of ownership or pique, and he has the feeling that she means all of those, all at once.

His back tightens, almost arches. Her fingertips rest on his hip. 

“You feel it?” she asks. 

He doesn’t know what she means, but he nods, anyhow. 

“Who are you?” 

His head falls to the side, and his skin is glazed with sweat. He feels feverish. “All yours.” He means it half-playfully, but it doesn’t come out that way. 

Her hand tightens, and he comes. 

The blindfold lifts.

She curls against him. 

His progress is infinitesimal. But he feels it. Two halves of him stepping closer together.

“Thank you,” he murmurs. 

She vaguely smacks at him, and they sleep.  


End file.
